PS 

3537 

H96 

15 

1907 

MAIN 


IRLF 


GIFT   OF 
YYV 


OSI 


Idle  Rhymes 
From  Oregon 


By  C.  H.  Sholes 


\ 


^      -— - 


Photo  by  R.  L.  Glisan,  Mazama  Outing,  Mount  Shasta,  1904.  Elevation  8600  feet. 
WHITE-BARK  PINE 

Where  mountain  thunders  shatter  solitude, 
Mid  lightnings  and  the  avalanche,  thy  home  ; 
The  hurricanes  thy  comrades  ;  by  cloud-foam, 

Enshrouding  snow  and  ice  long  months  immewed  ; 

Till  Summer,  stirring  after  long  prelude, 
Dissolves  thy  wintry  bonds,  and  from  the  Dome 
Above  thy  gnarled  and  hoary  trunk  forth  roam 

The  floods  to  sing  thy  harsh  vicissitude. 

On  thee  wild  storms  have  carved  in  graphic  runes 
A  thousand  years  of  history  :  how  rent,  yet  healed, 

Thou  still  deftest  Death,  all-conquering  tree  ! 

Whose  shining  aureole  ceaseless  importunes 
Calm  gravitation's  awful  stress  to  yield 
Thy  anguished  strain  for  immortality. 


ByC.  H.  SHOLES 


DONE  INTO  PRINT  BY 
THE  ROYCROFTERS  AT 
THEIR  SHOP  WHICH 
IS  IN  EAST  AURORA, 
ERIE  COUNTY,  NEW  YORK 


- 


Copyright  by  C.  H.  Sholes 
1907 


£5 

<  o7 


Idle  Rhymes 

From  Oregon 


This  edition,  printed  from  types,  is  limited  to  Two 
Hundred  copies. 


Contents 

/ 

A  Mountain  Walk  8 

July  Song  of  Mount  Hood  12 

Home  From  Alaska  13 

Chilcoot  Pass  14 

The  White-Bark  Pine  16 

The  Water  Ouzel  18 

On  Summit  of  Mount  Shasta  20 

Nesika  Klatawa  Sahale  21 

Sunset  Storm  on  Mount  Hood  23 

The  Storm-Cloud  24 

Love's  Alternate  26 

St.  Peter's  Dome  28 

QUATRAINS: 

Mount  Hood  31 

October  Days  31 

Unrest  31 

Self-Denial  31 

Query  31 

A  Cloud-Birth  32 

Fate  32 

Heroism  32 

"The  Sweet  Unrest  of  Spring  "  32 

Columbia  Gorge  32 

The  Message  33 

Spring  In  Iowa  33 

A  Wild  Anemone  33 

The  Poet's  Heart  33 


383363 


HILDREN  of  Mist-land  are  these, 
Dim  pictures  of  idyllic  hours; 
As  transient  as  leaves  on  the  trees, 
As  sunshine  in  Oregon  showers. 

From  land  of  the  domes  and  the  spires 
O'er-shadowing  turbulent  streams, 

Where  forests  use  needles  for  lyres, 
And  poets  find  orphics  in  dreams. 

Here  Nature,  supreme  in  her  graces, 

Surpasses  the  poet's  best  line, 
While  days'  and  the  nights'  commonplaces 

Interpret  man's  visions  divine. 


A  Mountain  Walk* 

;IS  DONE!  Proud  thought  for  one  whose  weary 

feet 

Attest  the  long  and  toilsome  road.  I  greet 
Thee,  Friend,  whose  rare  and  radiant  health 
Made  glorious  that  August  day,  whose  wealth 
Of  wit,  keen  argument,  and  charm  of  voice 
Made  miles  mere  sport  of  limbs,  and  lungs  rejoice 
To  climb  hot  dusty  hills,  whence  far  outlook 
Gave  rich  reward  to  toil.  Our  souls  partook 
Of  nature's  lavishness,  and  felt  instilled 
Primeval  strength,  like  sweet  wild  wine  distilled 
In  chalices  of  flower  and  fruit  and  tree. 

To  you,  brave  Heart,  the  enterprise;  to  me 
Companion's  part,  to  guide  and  choose  the  way, 
To  help — where  little  help  was  needed^-make  the  day 
For  you  more  fair;  to  fetch  the  beaded  cup 
Or  ruder  vessel  filled  with  sparkling  brew 
From  singing  brook  or  spring  that  bubbled  up, 
And  hand  it,  clear,  delicious,  cool,  to  you; 
Or,  holding  hand,  restrain  thee,  soaring  Sprite! 
From  taxing  strength  to  dance  o  'er  mountain  height. 

How  well,  discoursing  of  some  great  emprize, 
Your  voice  I  hear,  and  see  your  radiant  eyes; 
Remember  how  my  sad,  maturer  fears 
Oft  sought  to  rein  the  visions  of  your  years. 
A  vain  attempt !  for  you  were  wedded  strong 
To  thoughts  that  bore  your  trenchant  words  along; — 
In  vain!  for  you  had  optimistic  youth, 
And  in  opinion's  warfare  optimism's  Truth! 

*  Reprinted  from  "  Mazama  :  A  Record  of  Mountaineering  in  the  Pacific  Northwest,"  by 
permission  of  publishers. 

(8) 


In  our  exalted  mood  how  nature,  cold 
To  languid  eyes,  her  wondrous  wealth  unroll'd: 
A  stretch  of  tangled  growth—green,  red  and  brown; 
Some  vagrant  willows  tossing  catkins  down; 
The  barberry  tree;  wild  grape  of  Oregon; 
Hemlock  and  maple,  whose  lusty  roots  like  Harpagon 
Clutched  fallen  monarchs  of  the  ancient  wood 
And  sucked  their  substance  up — devouring  brood!  — 
Thus  fastening  life  on  death. 

Then  steeply  ran 

The  road  to  high  plateau,  a  level  span 
Mid  park  of  giant  pines  whose  yellow  bark 
The  morning  sun  transmutes  to  gold.  No  cark 
Or  care  could  wrinkle  here.  Like  page  it  seemed 
Of  heraldry:  On  emerald  field  gold  gleamed; 
Athwart  the  bosom  of  the  sun-drenched  land 
A  bosky  canyon  trailed  its  sable  band; 
And  countless  needles  lace-like  tracery 
Wrought  on  filmy  clouds  or  sapphire  sky, 
While  Mount  Kaniksu  couchant  brooded  o  'er 
This  coat-of-arms  the  clustering  ranges  bore. 

Such  riant  growth  of  flower,  fruit  and  shrubbery 
As  fringed  our  path  must  tribute  pay  ere  we 
Could  haste  to  journey's  end. — Why  haste?  A  day 
Like  this  might  never  dawn  again;  here  lay 
For  one  brief  hour  the  burdens  of  our  life 
As  journey  we  toward  mountain  peak.  Let  strife 
And  toil  and  trouble  stand  abashed  before 
Our  spirits'  calm,  as  threshold  of  God's  door 
Is  crossed,  His  temple's  glory  seen. — No  tasks 
So  light  as  those  our  mother  Nature  asks; 
And  so  with  never-wearied  step  and  searching  gaze 

(9) 


You  turn  aside  to  pluck  a  rose,  or  raise 

A  gorgeous  lily  droop'd  in  midday  heat — 

And  crush  the  tender  harebell  'neath  your  feet! 

On  marge  of  stream  where  moistened  soil  gave  birth 

In  rank  profusion  to  wild  fruits  of  earth, 

One  found  it  pleasant  cheer  (who  will,  contemn,) 

To  pluck  pink  salmon-berry,  leaving  stem 

"To  nod  like  cowl'd  monk's  head"  ('twas your  conceit), 

While  you  were  off  to  bring  me  royal  treat 

Of  strawberries  wild,  served  daintily  in  hand — 

A  service  such  as  king  could  not  command. 

Thus  loit'  ring,  pausing  oft  in  shade  of  fir 
(Whose  lyric  soul  responds  to  faintest  stir 
Of  winds),  we  traveled  many  a  mile.  Our  noonday  camp — 
Whereto  came  wearier  friends  who  scorned  to  tramp — 
Gave  needful  rest. 

The  way  resumed,  we  mount 
By  easy  steps  to  heights  whose  hours  we  count 
As  days  in  lowlands  where  the  sluggish  tides' 
Remorseless  power  engulfs  what  swiftly  glides 
From  mountain  peak  to  sea,  borne  down  by  stream 
Whose  source  is  in  the  glacier:  type  supreme 
Of  nature's  law  that  deathless  plies  eterne 
To  raze  a  mountain  or  rear  the  fragile  fern. 

Anon,  tree-barren  brownish  hills,  whose  grand 
And  flowing  curves  seemed  carved  by  artist's  hand, 
Or,  reared  like  mighty  crypts,  support  on  high 
Great  dome  of  cloud  and  architrave  of  sky. 
From  east  to  west  has  rolled  the  silent  sun, 
Fair  type  of  range  our  earnest  thoughts  have  run; 
Now  evening  twilight  deepens  forest  gloom, 

(10) 


Adds  pungency  to  wild  wood's  rare  perfume 
And  whilst  it  dims,  accents  the  glowing  words 
That  nature  writes  in  mystic,  rhythmic  chords. 

As  grandeurs  thus  unfold — wild  wind-swept  peak 
Where  winter's  storms  their  wrathless  vengeance 

wreak, 

Gloom-shrouded  canyon,  distant  height  cloud-plumed — 
Less  need  to  talk.  Yon  shifting  clouds,  illumed, 
Enshroud  the  wooded  range  that  girds  the  lake 
Where  we,  encamped,  shall  idle  respite  take 
From  speech  and  walk,  and  lying  round  the  fire 
Dream  o  'er  the  joys  the  day  has  brought,  respire 
The  tonic  air,  then  sleep  in  cedared  tent, 
Or  'neath  a  canopy  of  fir  through  which  besprent 
The  stars  look  down,  to  list  to  loon's  weird  cry 
So  desolate,  such  haunting  wail  as  'twould  defy 
The  world  to  purge  the  infinite  main 
Wherein  it  poured  its  life's  exquisite  pain. 


(ii) 


July  Song  of  Mount  Hood 

EHOLD !  I  am  clothed  in  garments  of  glory, 
My  graceful  cloud-banners  flung  out  to  the 

breeze; 

Fierce  sunbeams  wrinkle  my  forehead  hoary, 
e  thunders  the  avalanche  down  to  my  knees. 


My  torrents  and  glaciers,  unfettered  for  gain, 
Expending  their  strength  in  joyous  turmoil, 

Resistlessly  flow,  and  disperse  in  moraine 

My  cloud-piercing  cliffs,  and  my  grandeurs  despoil. 


Unheard  by  the  ear  of  the  indolent  throng, 

Triumphant  and  wild  in  their  midsummer  glee, 

My  rivers  and  canyons,  in  tumult  of  sorfg, 
Are  singing  a  rondeau  of  clouds  and  the  sea. 


Above  my  white  apex  the  infinite  deep; 

Submerging  my  feet  vast  forest  of  pine, 
The  chant  of  whose  organ  is  sweeter  than  sleep, 

The  spice  of  whose  breath  is  richer  than  wine. 


So  mild  are  the  days  when  I  slumber  and  brood 
An  infant  could  sleep  in  the  sun  on  my  breast; 

But  Titan  am  I  when  aroused,  so  beware  of  my  mood 
When  gales  and  the  snow  sweep  over  my  crest. 


(12) 


Home  From  Alaska 

- WEARIED  of  that  somber  land,  and 
throng 
Of  worshippers  of  gold  its  Arctic  shores  upon, 

I  sought  surcease  at  sea — the  sea's  wild  song 

A  bugle-blast  for  mist-blown  hills  of  Oregon. 


Where  Lynn  Canal's  wild  surges  swelled  and  roared 
And  shook  the  stars  from  startled  dawn, 

I  watched  with  longing  heart  our  progress  toward 
The  fragrant  mist-blown  hills  of  Oregon. 


Triumphant  ocean's  melancholy  sweep, 
Long  nights,  and  days  cold,  drear  and  wan, 

Vexed  sore  the  anxious  heart,  till  thought  did  leap 
Wild  miles  to  muse  on  mist-blown  hills  of  Oregon. 


The  desolate  reefs  of  barren  gleaming  rock 
Whereon  the  ceaseless  billows  roll  and  fawn, 

Flung  transient  clouds  of  mist  that  seemed  to  mock 
My  flight  to  distant  mist-blown  realms  of  Oregon. 


Gray  stormy  days  at  sea,  and  then  I  rose 
'Neath  higher  sun  and  balmier  skies,  to  don, 

Where  harbor-thronged  Willamette  flows, 
My  mist-blown  cloak  in  fir-crowned  Oregon. 


(13) 


Chilcoot  Pass 

'ER  headlands  bleak  and  in  the  narrow  canyon 

A  strange  foreboding  hung; 
The  south  wind  crooned,  and  from  the  peak  of 

Gagnon 
No  bright  snow-banner  swung. 


The  south-born  mists  in-drifted  from  the  ocean, 

And  with  the  mountain's  breath 
Commingling,  by  a  swift  and  fierce  emotion 

Presaged  the  gloom  of  death. 


All  night  the  soft  snow-flowers  falling 
Clothed  deep  the  mountain  slopes; 

A  calm  that  in  those  passes  seemed  appalling 
Gloom-tinged  the  toilers'  hopes. 


When  bright  the  morning  sun  broke  o'er  the  mountains, 

The  boom  of  avalanche 
And  bell-sweet  tones  of  myriad  cliff-born  fountains 

Made  bronze-faced  miners  blanch; 


For  Death  rode  on  the  pregnant  air  that  morning, 

And  startled  looks  were  cast, 
As  Nature's  birth-pangs  whispered  warning 

To  doomed  men  as  they  passed. 

(14) 


But  stronger  love  of  home  and  greed  for  gold 

Than  warning  words  of  guides; 
Not  of  the  danger  recks  or  young  or  old, 

So  long  as  Want  abides. 


Down  frowning  walls,  its  yeasty  mass  up-boiling, 

The  Chilcoot  terror  fell, 
And  sent  a  hundred  men  from  hopeful  toiling 

To  agonies  of  hell.  ' 


Like  thwarted  surges  soundless  depths  returning, 

Their  footsteps  fall  no  more; 
Rough  hands  from  struggling,  hearts  from  yearning, 

They  slumber  on  Time's  shore. 


(15) 


White-Bark  Pine* 

(  Translation  from  ancient  hieroglyphs.) 


HERE  God's  stern  thunders  shatter  solitude, 
With  lightnings  and  the  avalanche,  thy  home. 
The  crippling  Winds,  hurled  downward  from 

the  Dome 

Where  throned  in  naked  space  among  her  brood 
Of  shivering  stars  White  Death  her  ancient  feud 
Maintains  against  encroaching  Life,  gloam 
Sullenly  down  on  thee,  rifting  the  cloud-foam, 
Uncurb  'd  in  drear  rock-wild  infinitude. 


Now  grapple  with  the  bellowing  blast,  great  Bole! 

Storm-racked  and  bleached  by  thousand  snows,  sun- 
healed, 

Rune-carved,  and  writhing  in  gnarled  agony 
To  lift  the  quenchless  green  of  thine  aureole, 

Death  thou  defiest.  Tortured,  thou  wilt  not  yield 

Thy  anguished  strain  for  immortality. 


*  Reprinted  from  "  Mazama :  A  Record  of  Mountaineering  in  the  Pacific  Northwest,"  by 
permission  of  the  publishers. 

(16) 


The  Water-Ouzel 


BLISSFUL  Sprite!  enrapt  of  solitude, 
Elusive  as  the  light,  effect  or  cause 
Art  thou  of  charms  which  make  all  human 

laws 

And  ties  less  dear  to  me  than  wildest  wood? 
Shy  songster  of  the  canyon's  misty  mood, 

Where  sun  and  shade  keep  tryst  with  spray  and  pool, 
Where  fragrant  winds  dip  in  and  shift  and  brool, 
And  filter  sunshine  on  thy  tender  brood, 


Wouldst  thou  could  put  some  magic  in  my  blood 
To  make  me  throb  and  thrill  and  sing  like  thee, 

Out-rivalling  e  'en  thy  stream's  impetuous  flood, 
Thou  Joy  incarnate,  woodland  ecstasy!^ 

What  thou  hast  give  me,  O  marvellous  bird, 

To  sing  my  joys  and  sorrows  in  one  word. 


(18) 


Photo  by  Gertrude  Metcalfe,  Mazama  Outing,  Mount  Baker,  1906. 
THE  WATER-OUZEL 

To  secure  so  fine  a  picture  of  the  Ouzel  in  his  native  haunts  is  an 
achievement  worth  mentioning.  The  result  exhibits  that  rare 
coincidence  which  might  be  striven  for  a  thousand  times  without 
success.  The  bird  has  just  alighted— witness  the  numerous  ripples 
in  the  water — and  his  whole  being  is  so  alert  with  doubt,  suspicion 
and  curiosity  regarding  the  intruder,  that  one  can  almost  see  his 
wings  quiver  with  indecision.  A  quarter  of  a  second  sooner  or  later, 
and  the  film  would  have  spelled  failure. 


On  Summit  of  Mount  Shasta 


>ERENE  on  Shasta's  utmost  spire  I  stood, 
With  joy  of  conquest  filled;  its  western  flanks 
Obscured  by  thunder-clouds,  whose  darkening 

ranks 

Fprose  and  swelled,  a  threat-intoning  brood; 
The  lightning  glowing  red  (like  opal  fire-imbrued 
Within  its  matrix  rough)  burst  thro*  their  liquid  banks, 
Then  downward  rushed — a  silver-plumed  phalanx — 
Cool  streams  to  bless  the  parched  and  waiting  wood. 


"The  mind  of  God  as  perfume" — fragrant  breath 
Of  lofty  heights — swept  by  and  canceled  Death. 
So  deep  was  life,  so  wide  the  human  span, 

All  things  I  either  felt  or  saw  or  heard; 

The  universe  seemed  uttered  in  one  word, 
And  Time  itself  shrank  back  from  mortal  man. 


(20) 


Nesika  Klatawa  Sahale 

ETWEEN  Gibraltar's  cliffs  and  flowery  vales 
Lies  wondrous  land  of  snow-girt  hills, 
Whence  waters  rush  in  thousand  rills, 

And  trees  are  twisted  sore  by  mountain  gales. 


Vast  fields  of  spotless  snow  like  ermine  furs 
Thrown  over  shoulders  of  a  king; 
While  here  and  there,  to  make  them  cling, 

The  jagged  aiguilles  bind  them  on  the  spurs. 


In  cold  gray  dawn  the  mountain's  shrouded  height 

Looms  mystically  in  half-eclipse, 

A  heaven-born  apocalypse 
To  those  who  slowly  climb  by  stars'  dim  light. 


Gigantic  spire  and  stately  minaret 

Rise  round  its  shattered  rim, 

Remote  and  grand  as  Seraphim 
When  hurtling  storms  its  towers  of  granite  fret, 


But  now  the  mountain  smiles,  as  rising  sun 
In  gallant  mood  enwreathes 
Each  rugged  cliff;  anon,  it  breathes, 

And  on  its  mighty  breast  the  avalanches  run. 

(21) 


The  dying  glacier,  leaving  furrow  wide  and  deep, 

Pours  its  torrents  icy  cold 

And  the  tumbling  seracs  hold 
Death  and  terror  in  their  fitful  summer  sleep. 


A  river's  mighty  canyon  lies  below, 

Carved  out  like  sculptured  flight  of  song, 
While  toward  the  heights  its  babbling  tongue 

Flings  joyously  its  murmurs  soft  and  low. 


At  last,  exultant,  gazing  rapture-bound 
From  azure-piercing  mountain  peak, 
Too  awed  and  over-joyed  to  speak, 

The  weary  climbers  pause  amid  the  vast  profound. 


(,'22 ) 


Sunset  Storm  on  Mount  Hood 


; ARK  mystery  looms  upon  thy  radiant  height; 
Storm-burdened  clouds  grope  round  in  sullen 

mood; 
Their  swirling  masses  gloam  with  unheard 

brood 

Of  winds  that  shriek  and  shrill  and  flare  the  light 
Of  passing  day,  and  bear  on  eagle-flight 
The  pageant  grand.  Where  erstwhile  calmly  stood 
Thy  peak  in  July  majesty  sun-wooed, 
Now  stalks  the  shuddering  gloom  of  Arctic  night. 


Thy  rosy  flush  departs ;  gray  ashen  Death 

Falls  on  thy  breast,  then  reaches  for  thy  crown, 

While  round  thy  crags  the  lightning  leaps  fire-shod. 
Enrapt,  in  solemn  hush  one  scarce  draws  breath, 
But  gazes  hungry-eyed  upon  the  vision  lown 
As  thou  art  ambushed  in  the  heart  of  God. 


(23) 


The  Storm  Cloud 

i  SWIRLING  storm-cloud,  a  symbol  thou  art 
(Shattered  and  frayed  on  the  mountains 

above) 

:Of  my  torn  and  tempestuous  heart, — 
Torn  by  insatiable  longing  for  love. 


O  heart-storm-cloud  of  helpless  despair, 

Why  with  such  pain  dost  burden  my  breast? 

Thrall  unto  death,  and  haunted  by  care, 
Following  blindly  my  quest. 


O  storm-cloud  courted  by  lightning  and  wind, 
Why  to  my  anguishing  heart  dost  thou 'come 

Wild  with  the  freedom  of  love  that  is  blind, 
Shouting  your  joy  to  a  soul  that  is  dumb? 


O  storm-cloud  careering  'twixt  heaven  and  earth, 
Wild  as  the  seas  are,  freer  than  death, 

What  has  my  heart  to  exchange  for  your  mirth — 
Heart  full  of  lullabies  wasting  its  breath. 


O  storm-cloud  submissive,  bathed  by  the  sun, 
Robing  the  mountains  in  splendor  and  gleam, 

Out  of  the  sunbeams  thy  fabric  is  spun, 
To  vanish  like  joys,  as  swift  as  a  dream. 

(24) 


O  storm-cloud  tattered  like  scarred  battle-flag, 
Marching  in  columns  and  drenching  the  land, 

Heaving  huge  masses  in  rage  at  the  crag, 
Self-love  is  a  fruit  turns  ash  in  the  hand. 


O  storm-cloud  gleaming,  cloud  of  the  night, 
Piercing  the  gloom  with  your  heart's  wild  fire, 

How  little  I  fear  you,  I  laugh  at  your  might, 
Fire  of  your  heart  is  less  fierce  than  desire. 


Soon  you  will  give  to  the  sands  all  your  treasure, 
Vanishing  cloud,  O  cloud  fleet  flying: 

I  only  can  give  without  stint,  without  measure, 
Only  love  is  exhaustless,  love  only  undying. 


(25) 


Love's  Alternate 


F  you  were  sunset  beauty, 
And  I  were  evening  song, 
We  'd  voyage  in  a  dory 
Across  the  ocean  hoary, 
Seizing  the  shores  for  duty 

And  taking  the  tides  along, 
If  you  were  sunset  beauty, 
And  I  were  evening  song. 


If  I  were  what  the  clouds  are, 
And  you  were  queen  of  rain, 
You  'd  be  what  sails  to  ships  are, 
Withold  me  where  sweet  lips  are, 

To  sprinkle  where  the  crowds  are 
And  lavish  on  the  plain, 

If  I  were  what  the  clouds  are, 
And  you  were  queen  of  rain. 


If  I  were  artist-gifted, 

And  Love  were  beaten  gold, 
Our  love  would  strengthen  daily, 
We  'd  gather  flowers  gaily, 

While  self-denial  lifted 
The  pain  of  growing  old, 

If  I  were  artist-gifted, 

And  Love  were  beaten  gold. 

(26) 


If  you  were  queen  of  mountains, 
And  I  were  lord  of  day, 
I  'd  kiss  you  every  morning, 
Caress  you  past  all  scorning 

Despite  the  laughing  fountains, 
And  melt  your  icy  way, 

If  you  were  queen  of  mountains, 
And  I  were  lord  of  day. 


If  I  were  howling  ocean, 
And  you  the  fruitful  shore, 
I  'd  pass  the  fragrant  islands 
To  woo  your  lofty  highlands, 

And  teach  you  by  devotion 
To  love  my  lusty  roar, 

If  I  were  howling  ocean, 
And  you  the  fruitful  shore. 


(27) 


St.  Peter's  Dome 

HOSE  fancy  first  thy  majesty  essayed, 
O  mighty  Dome  ?  Who  first  foundations  laid 
To  rear  that  soul-exalting  fane?  Did  master- 
hand 

Of  Michael  Angelo  first  build  thy  grand 
Proportions,  carved  from  storied  hills  of  Rome 
Where  Tiber's  yellow  flood  rolls  to  the  sea? 
Or  was  this  greater  temple  reared  in  Western  land 
By  Nature's  primal  force,  wrought  free 
From  granite  peak  that  lifts  its  rough-hewn  wall 
( Deep-worn  by  nursling  streams  that  fret  and  brawl ) 
Beside  Columbia's  roaring  gorge,  to  shine 
Eternal  monument  of  Angelo's  design? 


Where  can  the  eye  gaze  on  thy  counterpart, 
O  unsuspected  archetype  of  Art? 
From  thee  we  learn  what  Nature's  law  commands: 
How  day  by  day  and  year  by  year  her  hands 
Have  shaped  to  noble  form  her  concept  vast — 
Foreseen  in  rock-ribbed  mountain,  sculpture-cast; 
With  equal  ease  disposed  that  huge  entablature, 
And  wrought  its  matchless  frieze  in  miniature, 
Or  raised  those  slender  spires  on  dizzy  height 
With  baffling  skill,  as  seeming  airy-light 
Upon  that  massive  bulk  as  tufts  of  fern 
That  fringe  a  garden  wall. 


Yet  when  Oblivion  stern 

Shall  raze  the  Artist's  work,  this  grander  Dome 
Will  rear  its  lichened  walls  to  lure  the  eagle  home. 

(28) 


Copyright  1903.  Riser  Photo  Co.,  Portland,  Oregon 


ST.  PETER'S  DOME 

( Columbia  River.  Elevation  3700  feet ) 


Quatrains 


Mount  Hood 

A  thousand  times  I  Ve  watched  thy  sunset  glow, 
Calm,  cold,  impassive,  thou  immortal  pile: 
Who  holds  thee  mute  knows  not  thy  morning  smile, 

Nor  ever  heard  thy  streams'  unceasing  flow. 

October  Days 

Now  lure  the  mountains  where  they  rise  sublime, 
Uniting  purple  heights  with  cloud-embattled  skies ; 

While  languorous  days  of  August's  smoky  rime 
Give  way  to  sun-bright  days  of  Paradise. 

Unrest 

I  long  for  the  mountains  again,  O  friend, 

With  desire  that  causes  the  heart  bitter  pain; 

And  thousand  times  daily  my  thoughts  thither  bend, 
For  joy  seemeth  nearer  on  peak  than  on  plain. 

Self-Denial 

Amid  the  fields  of  plenty,  lo,  he  stands, 
A  starving  terror  in  strong  masque  of  clay ; 

No  law  but  duty  lifts  restraining  hands, 
And  death  implored  rejects  a  willing  prey. 


He  who  has  plumbed  the  depths  of  that  dim  and  fearful 

sea 
Which  sobs  and  moans  around  the  small  white  sphere 

of  Known, 
Has  measured  life,  caused  death  to  crook  his  hingeless 

knee, 
And  God  himself  to  stir  upon  his  changeless  throne. 

(31) 


A  Cloud-Birth 

The  elfish  wind  careered  in  wailing  volumes 
From  moon-bright  earth  into  the  dizzy  skyland, 

And  skyward  flung,  'mong  misty  moonbeam  columns, 
Enough  earth-griefs  to  make  a  cloud-land  island. 

Fate 

What  griefs  and  conflicts  sore  my  life  hath  known 
Would  serve  immortal  Shakespeare's  august  line, 

If  them  across  his  heart-strings  'stead  of  mine 
The  fateful  winds  of  destiny  had  blown. 

Heroism 

Between  the  heights  of  loss  and  gain 
The  willing  slave  plods  on,  unheeding 

Those  hungry  twins,  sweet  Joy  and  Pain, 
Until  the  tortured  heart  is  bleeding. 

"  The  Sweet  Unrest  of  Spring  " 

Till  thee  I  met,  O  Friend,  there  was  no  sun, 
The  mountains  hid  behind  the  awful  dark; 

But  now  the  joyous  tides  of  Spring  do  run, 
And  everywhere  I  hear  the  meadow  lark. 

Columbia  Gorge 

Where  swift  Columbia's  flowing  thunder 
Rolls  glacier-laden  peaks  between, 

It  cleft  the  jeweled  range  asunder, 

And  healed  the  wound  with  slopes  of  green. 

(32) 


The  Message 

I  blessed  the  winged  messenger  who  brought  me  such 

a  treasure, 

With  his  grimy  little  hands  and  spattered  coat ; 
And  of  course  it  mattered  nothing,  so  royal  was  my 

pleasure, 
Whether  he  was  worth  a  million  or  a  groat. 

Spring  In  Iowa 

On  a  wind-swept  hill  the  crocus,  early  waking  up, 
Tosses  back  the  snow-drift  with  its  saffron-painted  cup; 
Thro*  the  welkin  runs  a  quiver,  as  a  tone  had  touched 

a  string — 
Swiftly  follow  wind  and  rain  and  sunshine — lo!  the 

Spring. 

A  Wild  Anemone 

For  thee,  rare  Friend  of  mine,  I  plucked  this  wild 

anemone 
Near  where  the  mountain's  crown  melts  in  forest 

green. 
It  none  hath  kissed  save  whom  the  silent  peak  hath 

seen — 
Kiss  it  thyself,  dear  Poet  mine,  and  give  it  immortality. 

The  Poet's  Heart 

The  wild  vanilla  leaf,  which  truant  boys 
Bring  home  and  peddle  through  the  town, 
Must  first  be  bruised  to  shed  its  fragance  round; 

And  so  the  poet's  heart,  whose  griefs  and  joys 
Are  all  within  its  deepest  cloister  found, 
Must  feel  the  thorn  ere  song  can  wreathe  his 
crown. 

(33) 


So  here  endeth  Idle  Rhymes  From  Oregon  as  written 
by  C.  H.  Sholes,  and  done  into  Booklet  form  by  The 
Roycrofters  at  their  Shop,  which  is  in  East  Aurora, 
New  York,  in  the  Year  Nineteen  Hundred  and  Seven 


383363 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


